


Our Journeys And Their Milestones

by Combination_NC



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flight Attendants, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet, F/F, F/M, Flight Attendants, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multi, Romance, Teasing, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combination_NC/pseuds/Combination_NC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets written on the journey through fandom, responses to different prompts and some self-indulgence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Loves [Merrill/Isabela]

**Author's Note:**

> Rhiannon42 prompted "Isabela/Merrill (friendship or romantic), braided hair".

When Isabela is not spending her time at the Hanged Man, she is usually to be found at the docks. When she comes back her hair smells of the sea and its ships, of salt and of tar, and Merrill loves to hide her nose in it and breathe in. Breathe in the scent of Isabela, who she loves, and the scent of the sea, that Isabela loves.

She braids it, and thinks of how practical it must be to have it braided while out on the sea. There is so much wind there that loose hair would turn into a bird’s nest in no time at all, and it would take so much time to sort out each night. And that would be all wrong, because the night is for making new tangles, for tangles in hair, for legs tangling with sheets as well as other legs.

Her own hair is much too short to braid properly. Perhaps she should let it grow so that it will be the right length when Isabela has her ship again.

She might not love Merrill in the same way she loves the sea, but she loves her in the way that made her give the promise to bring her with her when she leaves.

And that, Merrill thinks as she ties a red string around the end of the new braid, is even better.


	2. The name of your day [Thora Cousland, Sten]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Maybethings: "Sten, Warden, namedays".

When she was a child, each new year had mattered and been properly celebrated. As an adult the day had been noted, but no longer with such joy. As a Warden it no longer mattered at all, when her thoughts should be firmly on darkspawn and Blights. In this new life it was a day like any other. She woke up and she walked and she fought, and while that should have been that, something was gnawing at the edge of her mind. It was not yearning for her old life - the one she had now was sufficient. She had her companions as well as a purpose, and did not  _need_  more. And  _want_ was not for Wardens. And yet something was missing.

“Do you celebrate namedays?” Thora asked the companion she knew would not ask her about any feelings.

“My name matters not. Why would I celebrate it? Sten is what I am.” And who.

“The day you were born. When I was a child, each passing year was marked, celebrated. We had cake, as if to reward me for gaining another year of life.”

“…Cake?”

“Yes. I find myself missing it, at times. Had this world been a kinder one, my family and I would have had cake today.” That was it, then; family, safety, and the time to share excess.

They shared a long silence before Sten took to words again.

“It is a good thing.”

“Cake?”

“That you were born.”


	3. The First Morning [M!Hawke/Anders]

The night before had been his first time with Hawke, and this morning was not only his first morning next to him but the first time he woke up next to someone he loved in  _this_ way, warm and in a proper bed. Safe or at least as safe as he could ever be, guarded by strong arms, inside a house whose doors even the templars would hesitate to come knocking on.

Unfortunately Hawke snored in his sleep and right in his ear, but that was something Anders could learn to live with.

He did not mind him sleepily rubbing his beard against his cheek either. He did like beards, after all. Always had, although he was never quite able to grow a proper one himself.

But he had to draw the line at Hawke doing awkward, wet…  _things_  to his ear. Was it a kiss, licking, or simply drooling in his sleep? Anders honestly did  _not_   _even want_  to know.

He decided it was time to wake him up with a kiss – a  _proper_  one, to show him how good morning kisses ought to be done.


	4. The bright side of life [Carver, Sebastian]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by MsBarrows: Carver/Sebastian, hair.

He felt as if they had been running around in this bloody labyrinth for hours. The worst part of it was the indignity – he, a Grey Warden used to navigating through the Deep Roads, getting lost in a noble’s cellar.

With the Prince of Starkhaven of all people. Not that he had anything against the man himself, but he was hardly inconspicuous, standing out more in his shining armour than an abomination covered in feathers. You could actually see your reflection in that thing.

Carver took another look at it and nodded to himself. If nothing else, at least he was having a good hair day.


	5. Patience [Anders, Fenris]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cypheroftyr prompted: Fenris/Anders; moonlight stroll.

“Not to criticise your sense of direction or anything, but –“ Anders started.

“Then do  _not_.”

“It is just that we have been on this mountain  _many_  times before, and since you  _insisted_  on leading the way and it is getting  _dark_  –“

Fenris stopped so abruptly that Anders walked right into him. Deep breaths.  _Count to ten._  Hawke would find them, he only had to endure a little while longer. He let his markings flare up. 

“There. Now you cannot complain about the darkness.” Fenris quite frankly found it hard to believe that Anders had used to live in a tower. Why had no one simply pushed him off it?

For a while they walked in blessed silence. Until the fool mage got distracted by the moon, of all things.

“Ooh, this is kind of romantic, actually. A moonlight stroll…”

That was  _it_. 

“Maker help you, I swear I will push you off this cliff.”


	6. First Snow [Nathaniel/Anders]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iapetusneume prompted: Nathaniel/Anders, first day of winter.

The courtyard was completely covered in a layer of snow, uncommonly deep for this early in the season. Considering that the first day of winter was not usually quite this rich in snow, it must have been snowing heavily all night for it to form a layer as thick as this one.

Anders was  _ecstatic_.

Nathaniel watched him run around in it with his arms stretched out in childlike joy before throwing himself down on the ground to wave his legs and arms about, forming the general shape of a spastic person in the snow.

“Look!” Anders exclaimed as he jumped up. “A snow mage!”

“…Yes, very nice, Anders.” Nathaniel handed him Pounce as soon as he was close enough to accept him. The cat was getting rather heavy these days. “You should let him walk more, he is getting –“

“He is  _not_  fat,” the mage insisted, “this is just his winter fur. I am not putting him down in  _this_ , he could freeze his paws off! Couldn’t you, Pounce? Yes you could,  _yes you could!_  That is how cold it is!”

Nathaniel and Pounce both gave him their best  _what an idiot_ -looks, utterly wasted on Anders as he nuzzled the cat against his face with his eyes closed. Happy about being out from the tower to experience the changing seasons, out to experience weather at  _all_ , happy about his slightly chubby ginger tabby, and happier about Nathaniel than he knew how to say.

“If he had a little cape though, and something on his paws, then maybe…” he started instead.

“No.” Nathaniel had to draw the line somewhere. “We are not dressing up the cat.”

“We?”

“…We.”

At that Anders smiled, and pulled him in for a kiss.


	7. Afterglow [Anders/Isabela/The Lay Warden]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myjusticecake prompted: Anders/Izzy, during his escape. Not smut!

His breathing was finally beginning to slow down. He was exhausted, drained of mana and physical strength both. It was  _great_.

On his right side lay a slim young woman with griffon tattoos in some  _very_  interesting places. He had explored them in great detail. To be able to properly admire the artist’s skill, of course. It was only  _polite_  to admire as well as caress the breasts they adorned while he was at it.

He had been polite to the woman at his left as well.  _Very_  polite. She was older than he, with generous curves and the most confident smile he had ever seen. She was breathtaking, and when she trailed her hand down his body and purred in his ear he did not quite know if he should breathe faster or simply stop altogether.

“Think you can manage one of those… rejuvenate spells again, sweet thing?”

This was the best escape  _ever_.


	8. Surprises [M!Warden/Alistair]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zwierzodudle prompted: There’s nothing wrong with a bit of awkwardness. And dorkiness. Alistair, M!Warden, that rose scene.

Daylen was getting tired of surprises. He had been surprised at finding out he was a mage. He had been surprised at Jowan’s blood magic stunt.  _Then_  he had been surprised at being conscripted into the Grey Wardens. And  _then_  Duncan went and died and now everything had become such a mess. Surprise attacks by darkspawn, the local wildlife and crazy people. He was sick of it.

The problem with surprises was that there were never any good ones.

Life in general was not the best at this moment, or at least not the easiest. He had somehow ended up being the leader of this group of… special people. Not all of them the  _good_  kind of special.

Alistair was, though. There was something about his awkwardness and all the strange little things he said that made Daylen feel better about life.

He had no idea how to tell him, though. Or if he even should at all. With his luck, it would probably turn everything into the uncomfortable kind of awkward, not at all like the sweet kind of awkward that Alistair was.

So when he shoved a rose in his hands he was surprised, butfor once it was in a confused kind of way. And then the awkward rambling started. Of how  _he, Daylen_  was Alistair’s rare and wonderful thing amidst all this darkness, how he wanted to  _say_  something, and then the blushing.

It was the first good surprise in a very, very long time.

It led to the most awkward kiss he had ever had, but also the best.


	9. Birthday Trick [Anders/Fenris]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cypheroftyr prompted: Fenris/Anders, Fenris’ name day because Anders decides it’s that day.

Anders woke up early enough to view the best part of the sunrise. He had missed being able to see it, all those early mornings spent holed up in Darktown. From the window of Fenris’ borrowed mansion he could watch the colours in the sky shift and change with the morning light, and he did so with delight. There were those who would find it a silly fancy, but after so many years spent in windowless rooms he could not help but find pleasure in it, even beyond in the fact that he  _could_  see it.

The way the light hit Fenris’ lyrium markings was not a bad sight, either. Of course he wished that he would have been spared from the agony they had caused, but he could not deny that they were beautiful. He traced the lines with gentle fingers, and bent down to plant a soft kiss on the elf’s shoulder when he stirred, sleep losing its grip on him.

“Good morning, my favourite grumpy elf,” Anders cooed as he tickled him behind the ear. Fenris swatted his hand away, but not with any real force.

“Mage. Cease that ridiculous behaviour or I will push you off the bed.”

He always  _said_  that, but he never  _did_.

“You would not! Not on this  _special_ day.”

He had the most smug smile on his face, Fenris noted. And began to count to himself – was this some sort of anniversary? Because he was  _not_  going to celebrate any such thing, he was going to draw the line there, no matter how long the mage would look at him with puppy eyes. …But no, this could not be an anniversary. Not that he kept track of those or anything. He gave up, rolled over on his back and sighed.

“How so, mage?” The mage in question started to trail kisses along his collar bones before slowly moved further down, one hand gently stroking his hip.

“It is your nameday. I decided it should be today.” Anders murmured against his skin, between kisses.

Fenris found it difficult to focus, but managed to raise an eyebrow. “And you expect me to go along with it?”

“Well,  _yes_.” He looked up and flaunted his best wicked smile, letting a few blue sparks dance across his palm. “Because then I will give you something you have  _never_  had before.”

It turned out to be a rather magnificent gift, Fenris had to admit.


	10. In Amaranthine [Bethany, Sigrun]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minorearth prompted: Bethany and any of the Amaranthine Warden crew - getting to know you.

Being stationed in Amaranthine was… nice, in a way. It was not claustrophobic or filled to the brim with templars like Kirkwall had been, she had her own room at the Keep and did not have to hide what she was. But this… this was not the way she had imagined getting it, not the room not the not needing to hide. Being captured by the templars had seemed much more likely to happen than becoming a Grey Warden.

But now she was one, tainted and alone. She missed what was left of her family, even Gamlen. She missed the companions – they were Marian’s companions, of course, and not really  _hers_ , but some of them had turned into her friends.

She had tried to write letters, to keep in contact. They were all left unfinished, unsent. Not so much because she had nothing to say, but because she feared what  _they_  might say. All the things she was going to miss out on. There was still an unopened letter from Mother on her nightstand. Opening felt too much like a decision at the moment; to cling to her old life, or let it go.

“This is yours.” Bethany snapped out of her thoughts and blinked at the dwarwen woman in front of her, holding out a small dagger.

“Yes, I… must have misplaced it when –“

“Oh no, I took it,” Sigrun interrupted, all bright smile and no apology at all.

“…Why?”

“To get to know you! It is a great way to start a conversation.”

Bethany could not hold back a smile of her own. If  _this_  was her idea of a conversation starter, getting to know her promised to be  _very_  interesting.

The letters could wait a little while longer.


	11. Plans  [Cauthrien/Nathaniel]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serindrana prompted: Cauthrien/Nathaniel. Not flight attendants, but maybe on a plane together...? (Nathaniel could be the son of the CEO! Cauth could be security! or something...)
> 
> I am the sort of person you have to specify “not flight attendants”, to!

Nathaniel approved of the new security personnel. Cauth kept her focus on the job and did not distract herself with meaningless small talk. Although one of the flight attendants certainly tried to tempt her to. He kept stopping by to ask if there was anything they wanted suspiciously often, smile too wide and eyes so obviously on  _her_.

It was simply unprofessional. That was what was bothering him, to be confronted with such unprofessional behaviour over and over again. Nothing else.

He still considered sticking his leg out the next time the blond attendant walked by.


	12. Unexpected, and unexpectedly awkward [Serendipity, Jethann, Merrill]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a1879 prompted: Jethann and Serendipity - please continue your flight attendant AU? :D

The sounds coming from the other side of the door were unmistakable. One lucky couple were  _definitely_  in the process of filling out their membership forms to the mile high club.

“I haven’t seen Isabela for a while now,” Seren whispered in Jethann’s ear. “Do you think it is her in there?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.” He nodded his approval.

Neither of them had expected Merrill to be the one to stumble out from the bathroom. Or to recognise the short haired woman that followed her.


	13. Drifts [Cauthrien/Nathaniel]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serindrana prompted: Cauthrien/Nathaniel, mountains.

The wind howled like a furious beast and brought with it a white wall, the snowflakes hitting her face with such force that it hurt. It was impossible to see anything but grey stone and white snow, but she trusted Calenhad to find a safe path trough the drifts.

She was tired, and her horse even more so, but they had to continue on. Get through the pass and then down, to find Nathaniel and pass on the message.

If she could not reach him safely…  _No_. That was not an option. She would reach him – too much and too many depended on her for her to not make it.

She urged Calenhad on. It should not be much further left.


	14. Better Options [M!Hawke/Anders]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted: M!Hawke/Anders with any other party members, Renegade mission interrupted by the dragon in the bone pit.

For once, Anders welcomed the distraction of being attacked by a dragon. The sounds of the ongoing battle were preferable to only having the absence of questions to focus on and the hideous dragon easier to look at than his Hawke, who surely must  _know_.

He knew he would not be able to live with himself for long after betraying his trust as he would, and as he already was.

For the first time in his life Anders contemplated the upsides of being eaten by an angry dragon.


	15. Fashion Woes [Anders]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted "M!Hawke/Anders with any other party members, Renegade mission interrupted by the dragon in the bone pit". This is the non-angst version, which exist due to abhorsen327 and I speaking of the possibility of feathery dragons. Good times.

Anders’ shoulders slumped in disappointment. This dragon was a perfectly ordinary one, not feathery at all, not like the one there had recently been rumours of.

He had known immediately that he had to find it and no longer complained about constantly being picked for the Bone Pit trips.

He had the _very_ best idea for a feathery robe, and he needed many,  _many_  feathers to implement it.


	16. And what is in one [Bethany/Athenril]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serindrana prompted "Bethany/Athenril, gold".

Athenril slipped the leather band over Bethany’s head with uncharacteristic gentleness, and observed her in silence as she traced the beautiful pendant’s delicate pattern with her thumb. The way it gleamed in the sun made it look like… gold?

“What is this?” Bethany asked, finally tearing her eyes from the gift to look the giver in the eyes.

The elf smiled and reached out to touch her cheek. “A promise.”


	17. Dreams [Little!Anders]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a picture book with cats and thought of Anders.

It is rare for families around these parts to own any books other than the Chant of Light, as they are scarce here and thus very precious, but his does have a few. This particular one is old, with faded pages and a cover with bumped corners, and it is a  _treasure_. It is older than he is and belongs to his mother, but he is allowed to borrow it because he is big now, and knows how to be careful.

There are pictures of cats inside. Not only  _common_  cats like their mouser, grumpy and focused on his mission to slay as many mice as possible, but all kinds of cats in all kinds of shapes, sizes and colours. Black cats as well as white ones, striped and marbled, fluffy and short haired. Big ones, small ones, adult ones, and  _kittens_. One is strangely skinny and looks hairless, another is so fat that there surely must be several little kittens hiding inside, waiting for the right moment to climb out and see the world.

Some are not the kind of cat that is kept as a pet or a mouser, either. There is a lanky spotted one, and a mighty tiger with the grandest of stripes; an animal he will never see in the flesh, but he wishes he could. Why are horses used as mounts instead of those?  _He_ would much rather ride a tiger, because who in this world would  _not?_

He gives them all names, carefully chosen to suit their looks, or the personalities he imagines for them. This one is Wrinkleneck since the short fur makes him look so wrinkly, and the fluffiest one must be Flufflepaws, and  _that_  one is Prance-a-lot, and the tiger looks like a Pounce.

The family’s mouser is nice enough, willing to accept cuddles when on a break from hunting, but he is not  _his_  cat. He wants one of his very  _own_ , and he firmly decides that one day, he will.


	18. When art calls to your heart [Fenris/Anders, Fenris/Justice]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a WIP by pollencount. There is so much life in her sketches, too.

He does not run from room to room to choreograph routines. The mansion is large enough to host many a guest interested in such activities and were perhaps once used for just that back when it was not in such a state of decay, but that is of no importance to him. He makes use of it as he does and lets if fall apart out of reasons and feelings more complicated than either simple convenience or spite.

There is no dancing, but there has to be something to fill the days spent inside with. In a somewhat more habitable room than most there are parchment to fill with brush strokes; a skill he does not recall obtaining but has had time to perfect.  
Not all in his life is violence and blood, or death and its following decay. He does not form words as well as images, and so his new hard earned memories are put to paper in the form of what he does best; it seems more fitting that way, as if he is honouring them by doing so.

Images of forests and people from so far away, recreated with a brush to never be forgotten. New places, endless caves and so many faces, some showing up more often than others. A taproom, another mansion, a dwarf and another elf and so many humans, and someone who is perhaps more spirit than mortal man.

At some point the calls of  _abomination_  turned into  _mage_ , and after so many years spent near him he is finally  _Anders_  in his mind. He does not quite recall when he started to view him as more than the host for a demon, but now he does and knows his face better than the others. Where the sharp angles are and how his hair moves in the wind, how he carries himself as he calls upon more magic than anyone should be able to, and how he has hardened over the years, where the frown lines are that the abomination did not have but the mage, the man,  _Anders_  now does. He paints it all with brush strokes as careful as a lover’s caress, but he does not colour it. Not because of a lack of coloured paints; it is something he can obtain as he wishes.

He simply does not know if he should make the eyes an amber kindness or a harsh, clear blue, the hue of an other-wordly magic that calls to his markings more than the amber does to his heart.


	19. And all of bitter glory [Anders/Fenris/Isabela]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Defira85 called it "bitter glory", and it stuck with me. If this ever gets a long version (which I want there to be!), I believe this name will continue to stick. Written for a picture by pollencount.

In the soft warm darkness of Isabela’s room there is a tangle of limbs in three different hues, all with their own scars scattered across them as pathways on the maps of their lives. The body in the middle, however, is marked with scars of such beauty that it is all too easy to forget that scars is what they are; the empty space where more flesh used to be filled with a materia that ought to kill its carrier but is instead used to kill others.

Anders does not kiss those scars, and Isabela does not trace the white paths with her tongue. There are other scars that will receive such care and such caresses given by lips and more, but not the lyrium markings, because this is about the person underneath them and who he is now, the person he became, and has nothing to do with the burden of past ownership. This is about the free man between them and what he wants  _now_ , not what he might have wanted before and where it got him. And so she meets his lips and lets tongue taste tongue instead, and Anders traces the skin between the white scars with his as his right hand searches for Isabela’s hair, as one of hers wanders downward to another’s hair of a different kind, as Fenris own hands finds and caress them both.

It is not about three lonely people finding solace in each other, not beyond the fact that lonely is one of the many things they all are at times. The act itself might have had something about wanting to escape loneliness about it at some point, but never how it has been performed. There is nothing about the desperate air of loneliness or the running from it over this; this is about admiration and of joy, of the celebration of freedom with passion’d breaths and soft, soft touches, of movements that no one wants to have come to an end, but when they do there is pleasure in that, too.

Not that the pleasure of bodies moving together towards a form of completion is the sole point of  _this_ , whatever it is, either; not when there are things neither of them have words for, not in a spoken language they all understand, but still wants to have said. And so they let their lips explain what they otherwise cannot in this wordless way; let their lips and the tips of tongues admire Fenris, softly at first, then hotly, and always with reverence. 

Reverence for the man who has not done the most running of them all but gotten the furthest, that by chance came to want a  _more_  so much more difficult to grasp than so many others; the man who started out as a tool to be owned but came to be so much more and the one of them who has truly gotten what was wished for the most.


	20. The person beneath [Karl/Fenris]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippet from a tenant of editing hell, masquerading as a ficlet. I ship it with the energy of an OTP.

He should not think of the markings as beautiful, not when they had caused so much pain and posed such danger to its host, but the way they outlined his muscles and caught the light still were so, without a doubt. It was an additional cruelty, Karl thought, to design the markings to be so beautiful that they would distract from the person who bore them and come to define him in the eyes of too many.

At least he did not touch them, even as his eyes lingered; instead he traced the unmarked skin around them with careful fingers, softly as if the skin still burned from within and were in need of soothing.

The first kiss was pressed on his chin, between the white lines, earning him a soft sigh of a body’s yes, but he had to make sure.

“In words, if you please.”

Fenris chuckled, amused but content. “Do go on.”

And so he did, tongue carefully travelling the paths between the markings on his neck, fingers caressing the skin they met as he undressed him with all the reverence of a first time.


	21. The weight of the Void [Thora Cousland]

In the deep and in the dark, Thora screamed. Not out of fear for her life or horror at what her life had become, and not only to fill the darkness with something other than darkspawn and the sounds of battle. Her screams, too, were a sound of battle; war cries and shouts of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Walking and cleaning their weapons off corrupted blood could be done in silence, but the pressure of the suffocating darkness and so many ages old stone could only be kept pent up for so long. She hoped it sounded like rage. Rage at the darkspawn, and rage at the loss of light and life.

They met someone deep below Orzammar who had accepted that these abandoned caves was all that life could hold for him, and her rage turned hollow when faced with his wretched shade of existence.

_Once you take in the darkness_ , he had said,  _you do not miss the light so much_. She had shied away from the words as they were spoken, but the deeper down their journey took them, the more she realised their truth. But unlike for Ruck, no one would appear to seek her heart out with mercy in theirs and blade in hand. When the time would come for her final descent, it would be her and the darkspawn, and she would no longer scream but call.


	22. To keep a flicker of hope aflame [Thora Cousland]

When in the darkest deep yet her new found companions saw the sight of the glow from her enchanted blade dancing across her features as an unnerving one, Thora only thought of how its flames lit the way in more ways than the most apparent.

It was a welcome light in the dark mainly for the memories it called from her mind; not the one of how she received it but the ones of the journey she had undertaken to get to the point where she had, and of those who had been at her side. Most of all, the magic in the blade reminded her of the companion whose loss had cut her the deepest; the one who had the force of the elements at her fingertips but so little else, less than she was even aware of herself.

Those memories forced her forward, forever seeking a way to trade what was lost for something to regain and banishing the fear that her hope was in vain.


End file.
